


Variations on a Theme

by Anglofile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Spoilers for Many Happy Returns, Spoilers for The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglofile/pseuds/Anglofile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg knew that Mycroft knew that he knew. </p><p>And he knew that because they were shagging each other’s brains out every time they met to talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Many Happy Returns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MystradeSexyTimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MystradeSexyTimes/gifts).



Greg knew that Mycroft knew that he knew. 

 

And he knew  _that_ because they were shagging each other’s brains out every time they met to talk. 

 

He figured it was because even while Mycroft didn’t seem to think Greg was a complete idiot, he was nothing in comparison to Mycroft, so even a veiled reference to Greg knowing something he shouldn’t because he’d figured it out on his own must be like porn to the elder Holmes brother. There was something about this situation that made them both absolutely mad for each other, like they’d die in the next hour without an orgasm gotten at the other’s hand. The electricity of it kept Greg going back for more.

 

And Greg wasn’t…entirely blameless in the fact that he began regularly bringing it up just to push all the right buttons. One mention that he possibly knew and the next thing _he_ knew, Greg had his legs in the air while Mycroft pounded him through whatever surface they happened to be doing it on or vice versa.

 

If anything, Sherlock Holmes’ death had done wonders for his sex life.

* * *

 Greg looked down at the scotch in his hand, glowing a beautiful golden colour as it caught the light of the fire. This was one of the most decadent rooms he’d ever been in his life. The sofa was so comfortable he couldn’t bear getting up and every piece of furniture in the room was expensive.

 

And then there was Mycroft Holmes, the epitome of posh comfort, sitting beside him. He looked tired. Greg guessed they’d both had pretty shit weeks for one reason or another He probably shouldn’t have pushed his way into the man’s home when he was trying to rest. Ah well, he was here now.

 

“Doesn’t seem like he’s gone, does it?” Greg mused slowly.

 

“Gone is such a useless way of saying it,” Mycroft sighed impatiently, “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”

 

Greg shrugged.

 

“Maybe he’s not,” Greg replied. He looked off into the distance.

 

“What do you mean by that?” Mycroft asked sharply, frowning at the other man.

 

“Well you know,” Greg said contemplatively, “Loads of people say that they’re always with us, right? Don’t think they’re far off myself.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Are you saying Sherlock Holmes is alive _if only in our hearts?”_

Greg smirked. “More than that, Mycroft. He’s alive in more than that. Even you can’t deny that.”

 

Mycroft’s expression cleared. “Do you really think I want to think of my brother right now?”

 

Greg nodded, sure of it. “I don’t think you ever stopped.”

 

He winked.

 

Mycroft pounced on him.

* * *

 “You know,” Greg said with a smile, sitting on the corner of Mycroft’s desk, “Sherlock would throw a fit if he knew what we were doing.”

 

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose but the rest of his expression was quite bland.

 

“Given that he’s been dead for some time now and likely to be for _some time in the future_ , I don’t think there’s a reason to worry.”

 

Greg reached out to stroke Mycroft’s tie. He could see the man’s eyes growing dark.

 

“Maybe I should say we’re shagging at a press conference,” he teased with a smirk on his lips, “If anything could make Sherlock Holmes return…from the dead, that might just do it.”

 

“Do you think it likely?” Mycroft asked, his head tilting up.

 

“Oh I think it’s a certainty,” Greg whispered, his breath wafting against the lips being offered to his own.

 

Mycroft pulled Greg’s head down and kissed him hard.

* * *

“Anderson is convinced Sherlock is alive, you know,” Greg said by way of greeting.

 

Mycroft sighed. “And good evening to you too,” he said tritely, standing up and smoothly moving towards the detective inspector. “I presume you told him the truth.”

 

“I told him to all intents and purposes, Sherlock was dead,” Greg answered, cocking his head a bit, “and just because he figured out evidence to prove he was alive didn’t mean he’d come back because of it. That good enough?”

 

Mycroft looked down for a moment. “That makes it sound as if you’ve given him hope that he will come back, does it not?”

 

Greg grinned. “Well I didn’t say it exactly like that. Besides, he’s still convinced.”

 

“Hope springs eternal then?” Mycroft asked, smiling.

 

“You bet it does,” Greg replied gruffly before pulling the other man into a passionate kiss. Mycroft pressed himself against the other man, pushing Greg with a thump against the nearest wall. Greg moaned when he felt Mycroft’s hands grip his arse like he’d never let go.

 

Air. He needed air.

 

“Bed,” Greg demanded breathlessly, “The desk nearly killed my back.” 

* * *

 

Greg took a deep breath, enjoying the languorous afterglow he always felt after the adrenaline of shagging. He could hear a clock somewhere, probably that grandfather one in Mycroft’s study, ringing to announce the hour. Life was good.

 

“Have you visited John lately,” Mycroft asked, voice honeyed and melted from having sex.

 

Greg blew out a slow breath.

 

“I check in on him now and again,” he answered, “He’s progressing, I think, through his grief. Dating someone new who might just stick this time.”

 

“You should give him that dvd you showed me tonight. Make sure he watches it, it should do him good.”

 

Greg turned to look at Mycroft; the other man's eyes had closed his eyes to enjoy the calm.

 

“Alright. Least I can do for him and Sherlock. It’ll be hard for him to go through this but I guess it’ll help in the end.”

 

Mycroft opened his eyes. They stared at each other for a moment. A good shag did wonders to loosen Mycroft up. Greg sometimes fancied he was the only person who saw Mycroft unguarded…or as unguarded as a man like Mycroft could be.

 

“It’s all we can do for him right now,” Mycroft murmured, “We have to prepare him to accept the future, whatever it brings.”

 

Greg smiled and pulled Mycroft in for a soft kiss.

 

Message sent, message received.

 

 And Many Happy Returns for them all. 


	2. The Goldfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But this. This was as if a goldfish had suddenly begun spouting the theory of relativity and the complete works of Shakespeare as it swam around the fish tank. It had been that way for almost a year and a half now and oh how erotic Mycroft Holmes found it was to know Greg knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: DO NOT READ IF YOU'VE NOT SEEN THE EMPTY HEARSE!

Mycroft sat in his house, silent but for the clink of the ice in his glass, as Gregory Lestrade walked into his house and closed the door. There were no greetings made to each other, Mycroft didn’t rise to meet him, there was no sound at all. They just stared at each other, letting the seconds stretch into minutes, as both men assessed the other.

 

Mycroft knew Greg had just met the newly resurrected Sherlock Holmes.

 

If it hadn’t been the fact that Mycroft knew his brother’s every movement, could predict it most of the time, and had all but ordered the man to start incrementally reintroducing himself to his friends, Mycroft saw a cigarette, unlit, in Greg’s hand.

 

The detective inspector's week had been stressful. Mycroft knew as much from his various sources within the Yard, even if the evidence wasn’t staring him in the face. So the man had needed a smoke, desperately, but he’d been interrupted. It was there still in the detective’s hand, he hadn't discarded it. But it was the amusing lilt to Greg’s mouth that gave Mycroft pause. He seemed pleased, too pleased in fact.

 

One would almost call it fatherly pride.

 

He hadn’t been particularly pleased when Mycroft had helped him keep his job. This was different. Ah, yes, sentimentality. Greg has always taken a paternal instinct towards Sherlock and the prodigal son had truly returned.

 

Oh.

 

Mycroft, though possessed with more people skills than Sherlock ever dreamed of, did not enjoy interacting with most people; the world was largely populated by idiots. Oh, he’d been kind enough to rate Greg’s intelligence as above average; the man’s arrest rate was fairly high even without Sherlock’s help, but it was still no comparison to himself.

 

But this. This was as if a goldfish had suddenly begun spouting the theory of relativity and the complete works of Shakespeare as it swam around the fish tank. It had been that way for almost a year and a half now and _oh how erotic_ Mycroft Holmes found it was to know Greg knew.

 

Mycroft found himself standing and then striding towards the man still standing beside the door. Now closer than he’d been before, he eagerly searched Greg’s face. How gorgeous intelligence made an already breathtaking man. Exquisite. 

 

"You knew. You _know_.” he breathed, “How fantastic you are.”

 

Mycroft smiled, breathless with the joy of it. The man before him was truly unique in comparison to almost anyone else Mycroft knew. 

 

"Oh come on,” Greg teased, rolling his eyes,  “Seven or eight years with the Holmes brothers, you learn a thing or two. Figured if he hadn’t popped up shortly after the funeral, there was a reason we had to think he was dead. So I helped keep up the act."

 

Greg’s smile faded a little.

 

"All that besides, you left for quite awhile and you’re never gone that long without communication," Greg said knowingly, "Thought he might pop up soon if you had to go to the effort of leaving to retrieve him. It must have been hard for you though, these past two years, knowing it wasn’t certain he’d come back.”

 

Greg looked down at his shoes.

 

“Besides, we were having pretty fantastic sex,” he continued softly, “I’ve never felt so wanted before. I guess I didn’t want it to stop.”

 

Mycroft frowned. He raised his hand to cup Greg’s cheek and was pleased to see Greg closing his eyes and leaning in to the touch. It was a good sign for the future. 

 

“Does it have to stop?” he asked.

 

“I don’t want it to,” Greg replied, “We never really talked about it. I just knew you wanted me when you thought I knew your secret about Sherlock. I'm not that remarkable otherwise, not in comparison to you.”

 

Mycroft sighed.

 

“Nonsense. I won’t lie to you and say that I found your intelligence in this matter extremely erotic,” Mycroft admitted. He leaned closer and began kissing Greg’s jaw.

 

“But,” he continued, “That was merely an example of your intelligence. All that did was to spur me to take what I’ve always wanted.”

 

Greg opened his eyes. His smile was so bright it could outshine the sun.

 

“You want me? Not just because I figured it out?”

 

“If I had sex with everyone who had figured out Sherlock was alive, I would have to be entertaining that Anderson person you used to work with,” Mycroft said with a wry grin, “I much prefer you. Beards aren't really my style, in both senses of the word.”

 

Greg bit his lip to try to stop the ecstatic smile on his face but gave up as he threw his arms around the other man. Mycroft’s heart pounded with the heady feeling of it all. Greg had been such a revelation these past few years, showing him that he could care, if only for a very few people. Sherlock, naturally, he had always cared for, even if appearances very conveniently said otherwise. He cared for his parents as well, despite their seeming normality. And then there was Greg. Lovely, lovely Greg, who had figured out what he was hiding and didn’t mind a bit.

 

Greg, who saw through his defenses and liked the man he saw underneath. It was truly a miracle, if Mycroft believed in such things. He’d been so alone before. He wasn’t lonely now.

 

He’d found someone to complete him in a way Dr. Watson had completed Sherlock. A worry let itself rise to the surface. Sherlock’s friendship with the man was going to be in great jeopardy now. Finding out about Mycroft’s relationship with Greg was the least of their worries. 

 

“Come on, love,” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s lips, “Take me to bed. We can worry about Sherlock later.”

 

The expression of surprise at Greg seemingly reading his mind had Greg practically giggling.

 

“Oh come on,” Greg said through his laughter, “I’m a detective and even without your brother’s help, I’m a pretty damn good one. Yet you keep being surprised.”

 

“I never meant to impugn your honour, Gregory. I'm just unused to people reading me the way you do. I was actually musing that he’ll find out eventually,” Mycroft said contemplatively, “and I can throw him off a little, particularly right now with his friendship with John in trouble, but he will find out.”

 

"I think it’ll be while before he does, yeah,” Greg said, “I’m easy enough to reveal himself to but John’s not likely to forgive him very soon, if ever. Once that man’s trust is broken, it’s not easily mended. Don’t pretend you don’t see the exact same thing I do."

 

“I know.”

 

Greg pulled away and took Mycroft’s hand to lead him to the bedroom. The warmth of Greg’s hand kept him as securely tied to the dashing figure in front him than any restraints ever could.

 

“So do I.”

 

Greg pulled him into the bedroom and closed the door.

 

 


End file.
